


Renarin said nothing.

by PGT



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, One Night Stands, Smut, Threesome - F/F/M, Unrequited Crush, as canon compliant as smut can be anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: "Have I told you about the night Prince Renarin and I had two days back, walking the streets of the war camp? we came across these two sisters, you see, blue eyed and--""That's a lie!" Renarin said, blushing.Or,Based on Wit and Renarin's interaction in Chapter 12 of WOK.
Relationships: Hoid/Renarin Kholin, Wit/Renarin Kholin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Renarin said nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey what does Renarin do in his freetime? All I could find was this one time he got laid with Wit. Anyway, here's some smut based on that. I made it gayer, as I am wont to do.

With about as much warning as Wit was ever expected to provide, the black clad charlatan strode with purpose through a throng of archers towards Renarin, the prince standing just a few paces from his brother and father, a trailing shadow in the painfully familiar and yet foreign territory of arranged soldiers. Adolin and Dalinar bowed their heads over a scrolled map, placed on a hastily built folding table and pinned still with loose stones. Generals, ardents and battle advisors filled the empty spaces, and Renarin lingered on the outskirts, fingers twisting together and eyes unfocused, staring out at the mob of armed figures. Even looking Wit’s way, it took him a moment to register the bobbing white hair as the figure neared. He straightened, then, and tried to make himself look as mundane as possible. Whether the man would admit it or not, Wit took particular delight in the mockery of Renarin in particular, his non confrontational demeanor easy to get a rise out of, his face always betraying his embarrassment.

“Prince Renarin,” He called as he broke through the crowd. Wit’s expression was shaped into a cool smile, relaxed and effortless. He shone with confidence, clothes fitting against his thin figure as if perfectly tailored but not seeming pretentious. His features were neither beautiful nor unattractive, and yet they were distinctly unforgettable. Renarin gave a half nod of greeting, but didn’t dare speak for fear that his words might be used against him. There was no other reason for the King’s Wit to seek him out but for ridicule.

Wit settled a few paces away, postured with a hand on the loop of his sword belt and the other extended to gesture towards the army. “With battle creeping up, I was sure I’d find you here.” There was a pause as Renarin waited for the punchline. “Not because you’d be any help in the matter, but because you’re always near those who are.” Of course.

For Wit, it was a particularly poor attack; Renarin was hardly unfamiliar with digs at his physical capacities, and though that did not negate the insult’s potency, it did soften the blow.

“They should be wrapping up soon, They’re just rerouting because of the broken bridge.” He turned to see his brother’s bowed head, a shardplate armored finger jabbing towards a point on the map, seemingly arguing the route an ardent was proposing. 

When he turned back to Wit, he was shocked to find the man’s eyes still on him. His head was cocked just slightly to the left, and though he was a good head shorter than Renarin he had an air of authority.

“If I wanted to harass the Blackthorn I wouldn’t do it just before a battle, Renarin, that would be quite unwise. As for dear Adolin, well, he’s having enough trouble without me.” As if on cue, several voices rose around the table, shooting down Adolin’s argued path.

“This,” Wit waved again to the general gathering. “Isn’t really my style. And I know it’s not yours either, despite your insistence on being here.” He stepped closer, enough that he could whisper conspiratorially. “So why don’t we get out of here, experience a little fun?”

Renarin glanced over his shoulder again before chiding himself-- he was no child who needed his father’s permission to go doing things… but whatever would Wit want to do with  _ him? _ He was hardly interesting, and though he’d never seen the Wit outside of his duties, he couldn’t imagine they had the same sense of what qualified as ‘fun.’

But perhaps it would be better than being a shadow.

Setting his jaw, he gave a stiff nod, and stifled the strange feeling that curled in his chest as Wit’s smirk broadened into a toothy smile. 

Wit took Renarin backwards from the gathering army, back to the war camps. Though they had been on a plateau run, Dalinar’s forces had yet to meet any rift impassible by a permanent bridge, and so Wit and Renarin did not need assistance in returning, even under the growing nightfall. Renarin allowed Wit to guide him through the camps, silently noting his bouncy gait, the almost trancelike jaunt of his hips and flop of his ivory hair. From behind, unaccompanied by a silver tongue, Wit was almost pleasant company. Catching his own gaze, which had lay upon the seat of Wit’s well fitted pants, he was grateful that his blush went unseen, for Wit did not turn to make sure that he was following, as the grate of stone and dried crem beneath their boots gave enough heed to his steps.

They neared Dalinar’s war camp and Wit slowed his pace, falling to Renarin’s side and unceremoniously slinging an arm over his shoulder. If not for his naturally folded posture, giving himself as small a silhouette as possible, the distance would have been a strain on Wit’s arm. As it was, he was the perfect height to lean his weight against. 

“What do you say to some ladies? Your brother is certainly fond of them and Dalinar’s no virgin babe, but what of you?”

All too easily Renarin flushed again. “I’ll not be going to a whorehouse with you, Wit--”

The man waved a hand and scrunched his nose. “No, of course not. If we were doing that we would have gone to Sadeas or Sabrial’s markets. Besides, I’ll not spend a broam for what I know the two of us can find far cheaper.”

Flustered, Renarin looked to Wit, still stepping in tandem with him as, with his arm looped over Renarin’s neck, he was forced to keep pace. Wit smirked back, and Renarin felt vulnerable beneath the charlatan’s perceptive eye. Wit seemed to take him in-- plump lips, large, sapphire eyes, framed with long black eyelashes that shimmered with blond flecks in the right light, hidden behind his spectacles. Dark Alethi skin, only lightened slightly by his mother’s side. Black hair cut neatly, dappled with blond and strictly stopping at the ear-- not a sign of stubble upon his squared jaw. Objectively, Renarin knew he was attractive; but it was something else to hear it implied on another man’s lips. 

Especially a man so prone to insults and snide remarks. They were almost contradictory creatures, Renarin and Wit. Wit, who seemed to have a reply ready for anything, who walked tall despite his stature, who drew attention as easily as a highstorm. Renarin, who held his tongue for fear of misspeaking, who stood with a hunch, who hid flat against a wall when he could find one. Storms, even physically they were opposed-- Wit’s soft jawline and hands that-- while not grizzled-- showed a history of labor that Renarin’s did not. Renarin’s uniform which seemed a costume, Wit’s peculiar black garb which seemed the most obvious clothing to find him wrapped in. 

A pang of envy shot through Renarin, an admiration at the other man’s sheer capacity to be everything he could not. At the same time, the idea that Wit saw him as attractive… He shut those feelings down, buried them somewhere deep where he would not have to address them. 

As if the man hadn’t noticed the thoughts swimming through Renarin’s head, Wit continued on, “No, not whores, but brighteyed ladies with sleeved safehands you’ll be unbuttoning by the night’s end.” He slipped away from Renarin’s shoulder, allowing the prince some space. “Square your shoulders, look forward, and for God's sake stop making that face.”

Unsure at his interest in what they were doing-- though the idea of unsleeving a woman made his body stir-- he obeyed Wit’s direction. He stood at full height and forced his face to relax, taking in the streets around them. 

Wit led them not to the slum districts, with darkeyes and foreigners who wore fingerless gloves and sat on your lap for as little as a sapphire chip, but to a higher end street of bars. He did not stop here, however, and seemed to have no intention of choosing a bar to enter. When Renarin cautiously probed, Wit chided him. “I won’t spend a single sphere.”

It appeared that they would not have to, for what Wit was seeking. With his eyes on other passing figures, Renarin caught fawning stares, though he was unsure of who their attentions targeted. Darkeyes and brighteyes alike seemed to notice their presence, and whatever presence Wit was giving off gave enough of an idea of what they were looking for that people caught on.

There were plenty to choose from, though Wit gave no suggestion that Renarin should make any decisions. He carried on, guiding them at a relaxed stride through the district, cracking jokes and occasionally urging a response out of Renarin. The prince was shocked to find a loose smile on his own lips, never before believing the Wit could make anyone smile but through the degradation of others.

He sensed a shift in Wit’s performance as he found whatever he deemed an appropriate target for their flouncing. His casual walk veered, though not so direct as to walk straight to the women who had caught his eye. 

When Renarin finally caught the trail, he was horrified to see three figures. “There’s two of us,” He said, as if Wit might have forgotten.

“The more the merrier, isn’t it said?”

They were each fine blue eyed ladies, dressed in sleek, vibrant havah each of a different color, all embroidered in subtle thread of a matching tone, so that rather than popping out, they shimmered only when light reflected on them. Though he could not be sure, their darting glances seemed to favor Renarin, more than they caught on Wit. 

Renarin felt a cold shiver run through him at the sheer circumstance, though he still allowed himself to be led to the trio, and as they came face to face, it was clear whose attention went where. 

Two of the women, one dressed in cobalt and the other in a subdued yellow, only had eyes for Renarin, their bodies twisted so that they faced him, barely registering the shorter man though Wit did most of the talking. He was not nearly as fluent in courtmanship as his brother, but batting eyelashes were no subtle hint. He had an inkling that they knew who he was, the creeping suspicion that they were only interested in him for his status or, worse, his brother. But Wit’s charming laugh, though meant for the women, washed away his concerns and left him with an easy mind.

It was not particularly difficult to sway the women; Renarin fumbled over his words and felt he had few interesting stories to enchant them with, especially when standing beside Wit, but they did not lose interest. The woman in yellow made no secret of her desires, resting her safehand gently against Renorin’s forearm as he tried to remember the details of a recent plateau run he’d participated in.

With one on each hip, he caught Wit’s eye, and flushed at the man’s knowing smirk. He even winked, and it was a wonder none of the girls saw it. Wit announced that, for the sake of a more pleasant conversation, the ladies had best accompany the two of them to Wit’s stead. None took issue, and with a woman on each arm, Renarin was led through the streets stupefied.

He was not opposed to a casual accompaniment, but it had never been something he took great lengths to achieve-- generally being more trouble than it was worth. With Wit at his side, it had seemed no trouble at all.

Wit guided them to a fair soulcast abode; simple and rectangular with a windbreaker roof facing stormward.

He forgot himself, and the women at his sides, for a moment as he took in Wit’s quarters. He’d never been to the man’s abode, and he wasn’t sure he knew anyone who had. He must have done something either truly piteous or remarkable for Wit to decide he should be the first prince to grace his home.

An impressive stack of dressers and crates took up much of the nearest corner to the doorway, each overflowing with fabrics. Adolin, Renorin thought, would have been delighted to explore them. Hooks in the far wall held instruments, spaced evenly and orderly, categorized by type. A table near the center of the room was stacked high with jars of powders and vials of inks. It was an organized mess, but for all that there were a great many things, very little but for the instruments really told anything in particular about Wit, himself. There was no personal accoutrement, his furniture built for function and his belongings not outstanding in their uniquity.

Wit led them through the narrow pathways stacked boxes created to the far wall, where a seating area had been arranged; several plush chaise lounges forming a semicircle around a low table, piled high with fruits, a pitcher of wine and five glasses already set out. Idly, Renarin pondered when they’d been set. The open side of the table, not faced with a couch, was taken up by a four post bed with dark, forest green sheets and a modest mountain of pillows. 

Wit and the woman at his side-- Renarin hadn’t caught her name-- fell upon one of the couches, barely a hair of distance between them, her falling with giggles and Wit’s face decorated with a lazy grin, eyes on her lips, which she bit teasingly. He felt a pang of allure at the glaze which fogged Wit’s eyes, though he was quickly swept away by his own company, who directed him to the bed, foregoing the couches entirely.

“Oh--” He was pushed against the side, backs of his knees hitting the soft material and causing him to fall against the bed. The woman in blue-- Vishir-- sat beside him, the fabric of her skirts falling against his thigh as she left no space between them. Holding herself up with her safe hand, her other landed against his chest, as if trying to gauge what lay beneath his pristine uniform. Her black braids fell over her shoulder, a path of dark lines which directed the eye to the curve of her breast. She pressed against his arm, and his head swam at the softness which met him. The other woman-- Sharah, retreated only long enough to pour glasses of wine at the small table, lingering beside Wit as he reached out to her, coyly encouraging her to join them, rather than Renarin. “I’ll treat you just as well and leave you twice as worn out,” He purred, voice deep in a way that caught Renarin’s breath, even if his words weren’t for him. Sharah only laughed behind her glass and retreated. Renarin was grateful to see that she carried glasses for himself and Vishir. 

He took the glass and drank from it greedily, the red alcohol setting his tongue with a fruity aftertaste, dry and lightly burning the back of his throat. Sharah settled on the floor beside the bed, resting her side against Renarin’s calf, chin propped on his knee, looking with anticipation up at him. 

The soft sounds of kissing caught his ear, and with shock he saw Wit had taken no slow pace with the third of their partners, lips against hers, one of his pale hands encompassing a breast, the other tightly wound around her waist. She practically sat in his lap for all that her skirts would allow. Renarin took another gulp of wine, though it was not what caused his cheeks to burn. Vishir shifted at his side, grabbing his attention. They were so close, her painted lips parted just inches away. Hesitantly, he met them with his own, earning a pleasant hum. Everything about the woman was soft, her lips plump and full, almost frictionless in how smoothly they pressed against his, tasting of wine and something earthy, whatever left them tinted red. 

He sensed a hand on his inner thigh, and another at the collar of his uniform, slowly undoing the buttons. With fluttering eyelashes, he peeked past his kiss to see Wit in a similar condition, though further ahead-- his jackets pulled down his arms, neck exposed to eager kisses which stained his fair skin red, her skirts hiked up so that his hand could press against her bare thigh. Renarin took inspiration, searching out Vishir’s skirts and pulling them upward so that he could feel what lay beneath.

The hands on his thighs roamed upward, fumbling with his belt until he heard the clink of metal and felt the leather slacken. Vishir pulled his coat from his shoulders, and he similarly found the buttons which held her dress together at the side and fumbled them undone, so that beneath her blue havah pristine white undergarments peeked through, sheer fabric much thinner in comparison to the thick velvet of the havah, allowing very little to be left to the imagination as the shape of her breasts peeked through the opening, held on her only by the sleeves. She parted long enough to tug them away, stripping along with it her safepouch and underglove. His eyes fell upon the narrow wrist and lithe fingers, each nail painted a vibrant red and shaped into clean points. She took it and cupped Renarin’s jaw, before kissing him once more, deeply and sensually, her breast pushing against him again, though with far greater effect.

He parted his lips and bit softly at hers, gaining entry to roam the warmth of her mouth with his tongue, taking in the remnants of wine which flavored her. He returned his hand to her thighs, just on the verge of slipping beneath her smalls, though he found he didn’t dare quite yet. Blindly, his other hand caught the back of Sharah’s head, fingers folding through her hair which had come loose. Her hands found the waist of his pants, ushering them down his thighs as he adjusted long enough for her to do so, revealing his nakedness. 

The room was alight with sound-- the wet purse of kisses, soft moans which Wit ushered from the woman he held-- now laying against the couch beneath him. Wit’s voice murmured too lightly to understand-- though it was deep and sensual, adding to the desire that built in Renarin’s stomach. The shuffle of fabric being removed-- as Sharah, too, began to strip from her havah-- accented the giggles and eager words which came from the girls at his sides.

“So big,” Sharah mused at his half hard cock, her cheek resting against his inner thigh, breath close enough that the heat of it whispered against his length. She kissed the head before taking it into her mouth, wet warmth engulfing him, causing him to gasp and buck lightly forward into her.

Beside him, Vishir’s hands roamed, one beneath his shirt to feel his stomach-- which he embarrassingly remembered must not be as firm as many of the men in the war camps, as was likely preferable. Her other tangled in his blond-streaked hair, tugging at it and angling his head so that she could press deeper against him. He felt his lips tingle with the rare attention given to them, blood flowing to them and causing them to grow ruddy and full.

Wit’s belt clinking to the floor caught Renarin’s attention, and once more his eyes fell upon him, bowed over his partner, pants lowered only enough so that he could pull himself from his confines, her sprawled against the sofa with breasts exposed, skirt pulled upward and smalls pulled aside so that she was exposed in a rushed fashion, lips parted beneath Wit’s hand, several fingers dipping into her wetness, rolling small circles around her entrance earning soft praises and an arched back. His hair was mussed with evidence of her hand having been through it, unkempt in a way Renarin had never seen the charlatan. It built the neediness within him, and reluctantly he recognized how much of his desire in this moment was sourced not from the two beautiful women beside him, but the man with his back to him now. 

His hand was guided to Vishir’s chest, which he freed from her smalls, kneading the handful before finding her nipple between two fingers, twisting it to hardness. With his mouth, he took her other breast, suckling the other nipple as her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Beneath him, Sharah stroked his cock, wet with her saliva, one hand reaching what she could not take inside her, the other buried in the folds of her skirts. Renarin finally pushed aside Vishir’s smalls to cup her warmth, fingers slicking with wetness as she ground down on them. He slipped his fingers past the folded lips, stroking her velvety wet flesh upward to round her clit, massaging the hard nub in determined strokes. She swore against his hair, fucking herself on his hand. He pinched her nipple and blew on the other, overwhelming her with sensation. Across the room, Wit’s cock pushed into the woman beneath him, both moaning in tandem as their hips met. His eyes lingered on the juncture of their bond, entranced as Wit’s cock pumped into her, wondering what it would feel like inside of him. The mouth on his cock, too, he unconsciously imagined as Wit’s silver tongue. Flat against his frenulum, eyes looking up at him through a white mop of hair. He let himself fall into the illusion, eyes shutting to the reality before him. He rucked his hand up against Vishir, pressing his fingers inside of her, the muted squelch of her wetness at each thrust sourcing her soft gasps. He hastened, matching the pace of the tongue on his cock, until she clenched around his fingers, thighs squeezing his arm, hips rocking against him in doubletime as she urged him deeper within her. His fingers grew wet to the point of dripping, her juices leaving wet marks against Wit’s bedspread. When she had taken enough sensation, she fell away, slumping into the pillows and leaving Renarin with a soaked hand and a woman between his legs. He felt good, but with Vishir out of the way, he was far less distracted from his thoughts, more so that she was not visibly obstructing their fellows. Wit’s hips pistoned into his partner, who’s legs he’d hiked over his shoulders, his ass peeking from over his black pants, Renarin appreciating the shape alongside his predatory growls as he neared climax. His partner jostled against the couch, her breasts bouncing and her mouth locked in an ‘o,’ one hand loosely over her lips making little effort to muffle her squeaks. Wit seemed lost in a tangle of words, laced with raw sexuality, though Renarin found he did not know the language he spoke. Even without understanding, the growls went straight to his cock. He watched as Wit’s partner spasmed, upper body shaking, thighs flexing and toes curling. After what seemed almost too much, Wit separated from her, leaving her slumped figure, thighs slick and shaking. He had not cum, though his cock was red and throbbing with how near he was to it. 

Renarin hadn’t looked away before Wit turned, eyes catching one another.

Wit looked like a storming sex god. His shirt had been lost to the floor, though he still wore his pants. His face and chest were dewy with sweat, and he lazily pumped his cock just on the edge with one hand, the other resting on a hip. He tilted his head, and wore a similarly crooked smile. Renarin forgot about everyone else but him, for just a moment.

Wit stepped toward the bed, pausing only long enough to scoop up a full wine glass. He leaned over Sharah’s shoulder, tantalizingly close to Renarin’s cock, watching her wrapped lips bob over his length. He hummed in appraisal, brushing her hair over her shoulder so that he could see her face more clearly. His eyes met Renarin, again, at the same angle he might look if he were to be the one pleasuring him.

He whispered into her ear, whatever he said causing her to hum and nod, mouth still occupied. Wit set his glass on the floor and rested his hand on Sharah’s lower back, and she readjusted. She put her hands on Renarin’s waist, using him to gain leverage as she stood so that her hips were presented toward Wit. He took a handful of her beneath her skirts, and once more his other hand fell upon his cock. He lined himself up to her entrance. His eyes met Renarin’s.

He entered Sharah with one sure thrust, the force of it pressing Renarin deeper into her mouth. He felt her throat squeeze around him, the vibration of her moan coursing through his length. At each thrust, Wit pushed her further down Renarin’s cock, soft gagging noises spurred from each press, her nose brushing the soft curls at the base. He could hear the impact of Wit’s hips against her, and felt her breasts bouncing against his legs. Heat coiled within him as he neared climax, and from Wit’s growing huffs, he expected he would be coming, soon, too.

Sharah pulled off of Renarin’s length as the vein on the underside began to throb, taking her hand to pump it, slick with strands of spittle that had gathered as she drooled. He tipped over the edge, vision going white as he cried out, cum shooting over her open mouth and rosy cheeks. Even as she was decorated with his cum, Wit pounded into her, her cries growing drawn out and meaningless, breaths heaving and legs quivering against him. She fell to her knees, slipping off of Wit’s cock. She scooped Renarin’s cum from her cheeks and sucked the fingers she had coated in it. Wit pumped his cock furiously.

“Fuck, I’m close,” He whined, stabilizing himself on the back of a nearby chair. His face shone with sweat and his jaw was locked in a grimace as he fucked his hand, desperate to cum.

Were Renarin not in a post orgasm haze, he may have stopped himself. As it was, all he wanted was to have a hand wrapped around Wit’s cock. He staggered from the bed, stepping to Wit so that they were almost flush, looking down at the older man with lust-lost eyes. He put his hand over Wit’s, wrapping his larger one over his cock and pumping it. Only at the contact did Wit seem to notice what had happened. His eyes blew wide with shock and his mouth opened as if to discourage the touch. Renarin took his parted lips as an opportunity, leaning down to meet them with his own, tasting Wit, and wine, and the flavor of a woman.

Wit bucked into his hand and Renarin quickened his pace, until, with a sudden lunge, Wit took Renarin’s bottom lip into his teeth and bit hard enough to draw blood, claiming him as he spilled over both of their hands, cum shooting over both of their stomachs. 

Renarin slowed his pace, though he tugged every drop of seed from Wit, lost in their pressed lips and the touch of Wit’s hand, splayed against his stomach. He deviated to kiss a line up Wit’s soft jawline, sucking to leave marks down his neck and at his shoulder. Wit left scratched red streaks down his chest.

Exhausted, they fell against Wit’s bed, beside Vishir who appeared to be asleep. They both seemed reluctant to lose contact, fumbling kisses and touches. Renarin couldn’t form words, but the same could not be said for Wit. 

“Knew there was no chance in damnation you didn’t have your eyes set on me,” He said with a drowsy laugh while Renarin mouthed his chest. They were both sticky with his cum, and yet neither were eager to be cleaned of it. Renarin had no answer for Wit but further needy touches, and found he was too afraid Wit might break his heart to admit they were true.

Indeed, as their breaths returned to them, weariness creeping upon both their sprawled 

figures, Wit’s hand cautiously fell against Renarin’s head, fingers running through his hair in a domestic, lingering touch. “I’m no good for you, Renarin. Don’t get your hopes up. With any luck Elhokar will have me dead in a month, anyway.”

Renarin curled around the smaller man, arm against his chest, leg folded over his thighs. He did not want to let go, and yet he knew what Wit said to be true.

A long time passed before any of the five stirred. It was Renarin who left first, lethargically hunting the pieces of his uniform thrown carelessly across the floor, fitting himself into them, tidying himself as best as he was able in a small mirror Wit vaguely pointed him toward. He left before the women woke, when Wit assured he’d return them home safely. 

He had a sick taste in his mouth as he shut Wit’s door behind him, and on his walk back to the Kholin’s home away from home, he felt as if he might cry.

\---

Two days later, on a bridge between plateaus, Renarin stood beside his brother as they awaited a Great Shell's arrival. A familiar face came into view from across the way. “Wit!” Adolin cried in delight to see the black-clad man. 

Renarin’s eyes fell to the ground beneath his feet as Wit returned the greeting, conferring with Adolin and his father.

“No greeting for me, Renarin?” Wit said, amused.

Renarin said nothing.

  
  



End file.
